


Bondstuck: In The Dead Of Night

by TinyAngryPuppy



Series: BONDSTUCK [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, James Bond - Freeform, Secret Agent, Spy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-18
Updated: 2011-08-07
Packaged: 2017-10-20 12:42:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/212885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TinyAngryPuppy/pseuds/TinyAngryPuppy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which secret agent Dave Strider encounters his American partner Captain Jade Harley, fights through a series of violent encounters with troll gangsters,  engages in banter with no fewer than three attractive females, bets his life in a game of risk, wears a tuxedo, and drinks a martini. Shaking is involved. Stirring is not. COMPLETE</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. THE GIRL FROM HEADQUARTERS

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Roachpatrol for her amazing Beta-ing skills. Thanks to the anon who requested this for the inspiration and combining two of my favorite fandoms. Thanks to you for reading it.

Cool night air whips against a face permanently fixed with sunglasses and an ironic scowl, as the owner cuts through the sky on his totally unsubtle red-and-yellow flying skateboard. He’d lambasted the alchemiter department back at CQ for half an hour straight when they’d presented him his new means of travel, but inwardly he relishes the awful colors and ridiculous flame pattern. It’s like something from a Sega Genesis ad from 1991. In a word: _Rad._

As he’s nearing his destination, his smart-shades alert him to another airborne presence in the area. Without warning, a similarly red and orange flying suit of armor swoops down to his altitude and begins to fly alongside him. Out of reflex he tucks a hand into his white dinner jacket to grab his Walther PPK, but before he can complete the motion, the mechanical humanoid’s visor opens: the inhabitant is none other than his foreign female contact. 

“Easy there, Commander. We’ve all heard you’re quite the lady-killer, but I didn't think OSI meant it literally!” she quips, her suit automatically syncing with his shades’ inbuilt comm systems and displaying as lime-green text on the readout. “US Air force intelligence, Captain Jade Harley, at your service!”

“Seems you know me already, Harley, so let’s get to it. I assume you have the mission files for this little get-together?”

“You bet! You’re gonna land on the roof of a parking garage a couple blocks from the hotel where the event is taking place, change into formalwear-- well, I see _that_ won’t be an issue for you-- then a chartered limo will pick you up, drop you off at valet, and you and your partner will do your thing! The goal is to get as much info on codename ‘Fins’ as possible.”

“Hold up. Who’s this partner they’re saddling me with? They know I work best alone.”

“Silly! It’s me!!” shouts Harley happily, spinning in a neat barrel roll.

The dinner-jacketed agent is somehow able to facepalm and still keep his balance. 

As the duo lands on the roof of the parking garage, the man quickly captchalogues the brightly-colored monstrosity and begins fiddling with his evening wear, fixing his tie and straightening his gig line-- the press would be there, after all, and no decent spy could pass up a bit of notoriety when on easy offer. It hasn’t escaped his notice that his female companion is taking a few steps away, far enough to be hard to see but for the imposing silhouette of the armor. 

Which she promptly captchalogues, leaving her almost naked. 

Apparently she isn't aware the other agent’s shades allow him amplified-light vision. Even in total darkness the image is clear as day: a good field agent would never miss a chance to gather intel on his enemies or his friends, and as he finishes combing his blond hair back into an impeccable part, he silently ponders his new partner’s choice in lingerie. Bright green? A bit childish, he thinks-- but no matter, on that knockout figure she could make anything work.

The logic behind the odd color choice becomes a little more obvious, though, when Harley equips her evening gown: a pitch-black number with green sequins sparkling from swooping neckline to the ankle-length skirt, evoking a neon-sign-laden boulevard at 3 AM. Here in America, he reflects wryly, this sort of thing is unfortunately the height of culture. Still, in this instance he can’t quite bring himself to complain; the long slit up the side allows more than just a peek at her long, milk-pale legs with each step and the low neckline displays her-- be cool, he reminds himself-- her _munitions_ quite effectively. Satisfied with his own appearance, he walks over to her and smoothly draws up the zipper on the back of the charming agent’s dress.

“You look ravishing, dear. Hope you’ve had the foresight to pack something with a punch amongst all that weaponry.” Inch after inch of her pale back disappears. 

“If you mean a gun, then no. I’m a 3rd degree black belt in Aikido. Learned from a Japanese grandmaster in Guam.”

“All the oriental voodoo in the world isn’t going to stop a bullet.” Now he’s attaching the string of black pearls she’d handed him over her shoulder.

“Can’t wait to prove you wrong, Commander.” Her wry smile is infuriating, but he technically can’t give her orders on this mission, so he decides to play it every bit as cool as per usual. She extends her elbow. He takes it. 

Descending one level of the parking garage silently, the two meet their limousine and quickly climb inside. Immediately the man reaches for the minibar. “What’ll you have?” he asks, shades already loading up his bartending encyclopedia app. 

“Oh, I don’t drink on missions, club soda for me,” she replies absently, looking out the window at the streets going by. 

“Unacceptable. Let’s try again. What are you drinking? A real drink, mind you; no one shows up to a party like this stone-cold sober.”

“I guess it’s pointless to argue with you. Anything you feel like making, then. But not too strong, okay?” She turns to look at him. Her long black hair follows a fraction of a second behind, flowing perfectly over one shoulder. He hadn’t noticed her green eyes before. They’re stunning.

“Yeah, not too strong. Sure.” He grabs three bottles between his fingers and begins to unscrew the lids with his left hand. Deftly portioning the green fluid and a couple ice cubes into a martini shaker he pulls from the cabinet in the armrest of the limo, he shakes it precisely four times, and doles it carefully into a martini glass. 

“One grasshopper for the lady.” He hands it to her. “Have you had one of these? I had one in Harlem last month. Your eyes reminded me.”

Blushing ever so slightly, Harley responds, “No. I really don’t drink much at all,” She takes a small sip. When she brings the glass away from her lips, a slight trace of green remains. “Oooh, minty!” she giggles. 

The agent chuckles once. He sets into making his own drink with robotic precision, seemingly not even paying attention. The various bottles fly left and right as he adds a little of this, a little of that-- actually, quite a bit of that-- 

“Gosh, commander, take it easy with the gin, why don’t you?”

“Firstly, don’t tell me how to make my drink. Secondly, congratulations, because you just ordered one of your own.” As he pours the clear liquid out of the shaker the cool concoction immediately frosts the glass. He adds a long curl of lemon peel before handing the glass to the girl even as the bubbles are still rising. “I always have one before a mission. Same every time, like a scratched record. I’ve got it down to a science-- portion, temperature, even the lemon peel.”

Harley takes a cautious sip. “Oh my god. Commander, this is the _best_ \--”

“Thirdly, stop calling me commander. The name’s Strider. Dave Strider.”

 

 **BONDSTUCK**

In The Dead Of Night

  


Harley takes another sip of the strong cocktail in silence, the blush returning to her face, as Dave makes another for himself and downs it quickly. The rest of the limo ride passes comfortably, and before long the long black car pulls up to the valet stand and drops the two off at the party. 

They proceed into the hotel arm in arm, and Jade makes the mistake of slipping slightly on one of her high-heeled shoes. It seems she’s a bit of a lightweight-- who’d have thought-- and Dave steadies her, his arm wrapping around her shoulder, bare but for the thinnest black strap. They cross the threshold into a lavish ballroom, populated almost exclusively by trolls in expensive clothes. Harley tenses, earning a patronizing chuckle from Strider, and a little squeeze on the gooseflesh of her arm. “Now, try not to get into too much trouble, my dear. Go have fun.”

“Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,” she answers with an impudent cheerfulness, giving him a heart-stopping wink, her bright green eyes glowing in the gold light streaming from the chandeliers. Yet again, as she turns around, her hair follows slightly afterwards, floating like dark silk in water. _How does she do that?!_ Strider only nods, and as she bounds away, he begins to look for high-profile targets. 

Immediately he spots Vriska Serket, codename _Webs_ , alias Mindfang and known colloquially as the Spiderbitch. She is, unsurprisingly, standing in the center of a ring of male and female trolls in lavish clothes, laughing and grinning, pointed teeth and dangerous-looking horns glinting in the light. The known kismesis of codename Fins, her presence was predicted but she’d be useless to interrogate. The kismesis of a troll like the one they’re looking for would die under the most extreme torture before betraying a single fact that would lead to his defeat by anyone else. It’s a strange, strange relationship, but one the Royal Navy’s used on multiple occasion to bring down their targets.

He notices Harley getting acquainted with a hulking brute of a troll with long straight hair. He’s wearing cracked sunglasses but they don’t hide the obvious perspiration on his brow. Another high-profile target; that makes three of them, assuming codename Fins is here tonight. But they’re here for info, not blood, regardless the color.

He sidles up to a waitress holding a tray of cocktails, hands in pockets, one-hundred-percent nonchalant despite his $2000 jacket. Might as well be wearing a letterman. She’s a gorgeous number in a sort of playboy-bunny getup-- fishnets and cleavage ahoy-- her long curly black hair topped with a pair of ram-like horns. Her expression doesn’t change from its statuesque smile, and she extends the tray to him. 

“Care for a drink, sir?”

“I’d rather have the bar,” replies Strider coolly, “Assuming it’s full service.”

“You can have a drink,” replies the troll. “The smile’s all the service you’re gonna get.” She exaggerates her grin just a bit, and her sharp fangs glimmer threateningly. 

“Easy there, lady. Didn’t mean to offend. I was just wondering if your boss is here tonight-- the man behind the operation, so to speak. The one they call Dualscar.”

She goes still. “Take your drink and go, human. I don’t know how you got invited to this mess but it’s not somewhere you want to be.”

“Fine, have it your way, but if you get bored later, I’d like to pick your brain a bit more…” He slips a card adorned with a pixelated broken record logo onto her drink tray. It says:

 _S c r a t c h_  

Music production

Followed by his phone number. There’s no name. “This is just my cover, I’m actually a secret agent. Don’t tell anyone.” The troll girl’s smile goes a bit incredulous, but before he can say anything he’s already slouched off.

Next target sighted. The agent’s shades identify yet another highblood: not one of the underworld royalty but one of the actual for-real yes-trolls-actually-have-royalty royalty. Her name is Feferi Peixes, and she’s apparently Fins’ “moirail,” which is like a specially-designated, officially sanctioned best friend. Why she’d involve herself with someone so below-the-board is beyond Dave, but then, Trolls’ view of criminal work is that it's equal to legal work in every conceivable sense. 

Since Human law enforcement pretty much leaves their parts of town up to their own messed-up justice system, this strikes Dave as really neither here nor there, but what he’s being informed of now by his shades is that she’s the highest-up troll in the entire city. There’s a lot of info on her; she’s gone through the most minimal of efforts to hide data about herself online. Frequent hangouts, favorite cuisine, top 10 albums-- it seemed a miracle she hadn’t been assassinated! She’s even got a Glubspace page, for Christ’s sake.

Curiously, she’s by herself. Taking it as a welcome opening, he crosses the ballroom to her, passing tuxedoed trolls and scantily-clad waitresses proffering trays of delicious-looking hors d’oeuvers, and with just the right amount of aloof charm, he draws up to the seatroll, standing at the bottom of a beautiful red-carpeted staircase. 

This would be the moment to stun her with a perfectly charming, witty-but-still-sexy line that will echo in her head for the rest of the night.

“‘Sup,” he says, leaning casually against the brass banister. “Heard you like glubcore.”

Feferi’s eyes are suddenly wide open. “I LOVE GLUBCORE! OH MY GOD DO YOU LIKE IT TOO?!” She claps her hands together and personally delivers the most _disgusting_ grin.

“...Er, yeah. Well, it’s not as good back in England, but I have a few LPs by, er,” His shades quickly remind him of one of her favorite bands, “Scared To Depths.”

“WOOOOOOOW! You have SUCH good taste! OH MY GOD, You know what?! I met the Singer?! Of Depths!? At this little dive bar?! And like, turns out he’s a vegetarian?!”

Suddenly the reason behind Feferi’s solitude becomes abundantly clear. After 15 seconds he already hates her royal pink guts.

“Wow. That’s so deep,” he replies unenthusiastically. Feferi’s grin increases even wider and she bursts into a particularly unpleasant cackle. 

“OH MY COD! Was that a fish pun!? I love fish puns! OK, my turn--”

“Say, I was hoping you could tell me where to find your moirail, actually...” Strider replies quickly, hoping to nip any further punning, intentional or not, in the bud.

The fishtroll’s expression darkens glubstantially-- _sub_ stantially. Her purple lip quivers, and a fuchia-tinted tear sparkles in her eye. 

“Glub…” She glubs.

“Woah, sorry, didn’t mean to upset you. Uh, so I guess he’s not going to be here?”

“No… I mean, yes, he’s here, probably in his suite, but he’s not my moirail anymore… _Glub!_ ” 

 _So he is here,_ Strider concludes.“Sorry to hear that. Shame for such a lovely creature as yourself to go unaccompanied. Unfortunately, I’ve some terribly urgent business to take care of--”

“Oh, don’t go yet! Tell me about the Glubcore scene in England! I’ve only been once-- I spend most of my time bouncing between here and the Caribbean.”

The moment she says these words, Strider’s shades flash an update directly from CQ. _Persue lead into troll crime activity in Caribbean_. The agent barely blinks, instead looking back at Feferi and smiling slightly. “You know what, sure. Terribly urgent business can wait. But before I tell you about the time I saw the most amazing show at Brixton Academy, I have to know-- where in the Caribbean?”

The aquatic troll giggles. “Nowhere you’ve ever been… There’s a pretty big city  of seatrolls off the coast of Nassau, on the seafloor. If you grow gills someday, drop by and visit! The water’s warm all year!” She cackles merrily. 

“And all your swimming about is for vacation or what?” Dave cocks an eyebrow.

“No, silly! Wow, you really don’t know much about trolls do you? I’m the Queen! As in, like the president? Duh!”

“Wow! I mean, I always just thought it was a title with no real power but a ton of cash and corgis, like ours.” Strider is getting tired of feigning ignorance to entertain an immature political leader, but then he’s had practice with this kind of thing his entire Naval career, so he puts up with it. 

 “Yeah, so needless to say I’m pretty busy all the time. But glubbing Eridan texts me out of nowhere and tells me to ‘drop wwhatevver I’m doin’’ and get over here right away for this important party. Sometimes there’s just no arguing with a guy like that! So here I am!”

“So you go around making sure things that take place in your city are legal and things like that? Writing laws and whatnot?”

“Legal? Glubglubglub!” Her laugh reminds Dave of the sound of blowing bubbles in milk. “You’re just precious! I get what you’re saying, though. You know, if you’re trying to move products through the area, I can hook you up with some of my import/export friends-- I keep my flippers out of it but there’s no blueblood alive who doesn’t at least know a guy.”

“I’d appreciate that. Not out loud, though-- I have an SSL email for business, proxied and 256-bit encrypted. Military-level security. If you could send the info to this email, I’ll cut you in for one-and-a-half percent.” He proffers one of his cards, and she takes it in her cool, rubbery hand. The word _clammy_ flashes in his mind but he waves it aside like cigarette smoke. No time for puns, Strider. Focus.

“Glub! Sounds like we cod ourshellves a keel,” giggles Feferi, and then interpreting Dave’s pained expression as misunderstanding, repeats herself. “Got ourselves a deal...”

“Oh! Haha!” Strider forces a laugh. 

She digs her phone out of her purse and fiddles with it for a minute. It’s a heavy-duty number, apparently designed to withstand seafloor-level water pressure. 

“There! Sent!” She chirps.

 His shades assure him sufficient data has been gathered on the secondary mission and it’s time to get back to plan A. “Well, I’d better be going before the peanut gallery over there starts talking. If we’re going to be in business, I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other. Maybe we could catch a show sometime.”

Feferi grins, exposing her rows of sharp shark teeth. “I’d really like that.” _Mental note- no matter how much of this crazy broad I do end up seeing, fellatio is off the table._  And with that, Strider saunters off to resume his search for Eridan Ampora. 

“Wait!” she calls. “I didn’t get your name!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to Zilla for the artwork!  
> Visit at http://the-zilla.deviantart.com/


	2. FROM A VIEW TO A KILL

On his way back to the ballroom floor, he spies Harley’s sparkling gown out of the corner of his eye. He slows and then stops, unconsciously, and just watches her for a minute. She’s talking to a troll with the biggest horns he’s ever seen. She’s grinning, green eyes sparkling. In slow motion, she tucks a lock of black hair behind her pale ear with one finger, laughing. Details blur into a series of snapshots. Shimmering pink lips. Adorable buck teeth. Pale, freckled shoulders. She leans forward slightly, puts her hand on the troll’s shoulder.

A wave of heat washes over him, from his ears to his toes. He can feel blood rushing to his face. _This is unacceptable,_ he tells himself fiercely. _Get yourself together, Dave!_  

He heads over to the two figures, hands slipping themselves into his pockets. He notices Jade’s features come into focus as he gets closer to her-- God, she’s turned him into a drooling schoolboy. It’s bloody pathetic. “Darling? A moment please?” he asks, smiling quickly and dismissively at the large-horned troll. “In private?”

“Uh, okay, sure. It was sure nice talking to you, Mr. Nitram!” She gives him a little wave. 

“Uh, Goodbye, Ms. Harley, I hope, you’ll call me about, uh, things…” 

Strider’s eyebrows narrow. He puts and arm over possessively and leads her to a hallway. He looks both ways, check his smart shades readout for signs of bugs or observation equipment. There’s mics every few yards in the ceiling and a camera at the end of the hall, in keeping with the security plan for a hotel like this. Better be careful. 

“Greg, what is this about?” she asks. It takes Dave a second to realize she’s using his cover’s name. He hadn’t even been thinking about it. He literally didn’t read his cover folder at all.

“Thought you’d want to know our friend is here, probably in a suite. I don’t know where though, so let’s focus on finding him instead of messing around, alright?”

“Messing around!? You’ve been drooling over everything with breasts in this whole building-- _all night_ , Mr. Smoothy-Smooth Ladies’ Man!” Her freckled cheeks are turning lightly pink with anger-- or something more?

 _Focus, Strider._  

“I-- well. _My_ methods, however they appeared to you, are effective. I got the data we needed. We can proceed now. Focus on finding Fins.”

“‘Kay. Let’s meet up in an hour to compare notes.”

“Sounds good.” They get going. Dave holds the door back into the ballroom for Jade, and follows in after her. They split up among the other guests, and Dave immediately heads through the mezzanine and finds an elevator to take him to the top floor. PDFs begin popping up on his shades display: the manual for this model of elevator, the occupants of every suite in the hotel. The manual flips itself to the page on police procedures. Seems holding the 1st and 4th buttons on the second row will cause it to travel to the destination floor nonstop. Every elevator in the US has this kind of function, it’s a legal requirement. The agent devil-horns the buttons and focuses on the guest roster. No Ampora, no trace of any common aliases. Was Feferi’s information a false lead? Can’t rule it out.

As the words appear in his mind, they simultaneously appear on screen. Really amazing, this technology… Strider grew up with IBM model Ms and ball mice and now you can control a computer with your brain. He doesn’t take it for granted. He sends a quick message to CQ concerning the validity of the data from Feferi’s email. It’ll be a few minutes before he can expect a reply, 256-bit encryption is a pain in the ass. Floor numbers go by on the display above the elevator doors. 13. 14. 15.

He absently goes over the list of suite occupants but his thoughts turn to Jade immediately. Where had the Americans found a peach like her? His shades helpfully brought up a dossier on her, but reading the on-file info of an intelligence officer is a pointless endeavor. The only information they provide is the Geneva-required stuff: name, rank, and service number. In the picture provided she’s wearing a blue flight cap that clashes horribly with her beautiful green eyes. She’s grinning, buck teeth protruding slightly, almost matching the captain’s bars on her cap. Her hair is pulled back in a tight military bun. Dave finds himself staring and has to shake his head once to focus up. 

He checks the floors. 26. 27. 28. This is taking forever: his fingers are starting to hurt from holding the buttons.

The shades flash an alert. He’s received an urgent message from CQ. “Email address in question has received no email since start of mission.” What the hell? Then what was she doing earlier on her phone? He quickly reaches into his dinner jacket and pulls his iPhone out. 2 missed texts. 

First one’s from a number not yet in his address book. _Overheard security talking about you, might want to leave 0_0 Aradia._ Must be the waitress from before.

Second one’s also someone he doesn’t know. _How’re you enjoying the party? I remember you saying you wanted to sea Eridan. He’s on floor 40, forgot to tell you. Pods of love! Feferi._

Forty?! Dave looks up. 34. 35. 36. He un-devil-horns the buttons and clicks 40, and texts Jade to get there as quick as she can. As soon at it’s sent, he looks up again. Floor 38. 

His phone buzzes. Another text from Feferi.

  
_One more thing..._   


Floor 39.

  
_BY------E!!!_   


Floor 40. Elevator doors slide open. Suddenly there are a lot of trolls aiming a lot of guns at him. 

Awesome. 

The agent drops to his back, prone and providing as small a target as possible. His Walther is cocked by the time he hits the floor. He manages to take aim by the time any of them have fired, and by the end of the first volley there are splatters in two shades of green blood on the cheap suits of the remaining five trolls. Where he was standing a second ago is now a jagged hole in the wall and the explosive noise of gunfire has deafened him, but Strider isn’t disoriented. This ain’t his first rodeo.

That said, things aren’t looking good. Five trolls, no exit, elevator-- kind of an end-of-the-line situation, even for the great Dave Strider. But as he levels his gun at a third thug, the one on the far left pretty much explodes in a candy-apple explosion of troll blood and viscera, splattering the others with innards and drastically altering their priorities. Before the thugs get themselves fully turned around, the second one’s stomach bursts outwards like a overmicrowaved marshmallow peep and stringy yellow organs carpet the ground in front of him. He emits a burble and collapses. 

From somewhere, a voice. It’s so loud he can hear it over the sound of the splitting pain currently occupying his ear canals. “OH YEAH, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS LIKE THAT? YOU WANNA FUCK WITH ME SOME MORE!? I’M READY TO PLAY!!” There’s a low _thoonk_ and a grenade flies into the chest cavity of the yellowblood, passing his ribcage like it’s candy floss. The voice laughs maniacally. The troll is still alive enough that his expression of shock deepens. Dave flips the fuck over and covers his eyes and ears, just on the off chance the grenade wasn’t frag or HE and thus wouldn’t kill him immediately. The predictably ear-shattering _BOOM_ splashes him with a small wave of yellow gore. The smell of burning troll guts is overwhelming. 

His ears, now completely useless after the flashbang’s phosphoric assault, don’t pick up the events that follow, but when he turns back around there’s one troll left. Before Strider’s permanently shaded eyes-- still working, motherfucking _miracles_ \-- he’s firing both revolvers at whoever or whatever just killed all of his buddies. When all twelve of his chambers are empty, he throws the heavy guns down and attempts to reach into his waistband. With a _pakpakpak_ a zigzag of holes appear in his torso, each one emitting a deluge of brown sludgy blood. He falls to his knees, then facedown onto the floor. 

There’s about an inch of thick, awful-smelling blood in the elevator now, and Dave slips as he tries to rise to his feet. After a minute, he regains his balance despite his eardrums feeling like party crackers full of thumbtacks. He hobbles over the corpses to see who or what saved his life. 

God.

  
_Damnit._   


It’s Jade fucking Harley, still impeccably dressed in her evening gown, long hair fluttering out like a banner in the breeze of a broken window. At her feet is a small armory’s worth of large, heavy machine guns, most still emitting smoke. 

She’s holding a compact and fixing her fucking makeup. _Women._

She looks up at him. “Oh my god, Dave! I’m so glad you’re alright!” She runs forward and throws herself into his arms. He reluctantly catches her, smearing multicolored blood over every inch of her that touches him. “I was afraid I’d be too late!”

“That was a hell of a thing- how did you even?!” Dave began, then decided he didn’t really care. “And one more thing. Whatever happened to Aikido?!”

She winks.    
“I lied. A girl’s gotta have some secrets, you know. And I used the Iron man suit. I flew up the building when I got your text. I just knew they’d be setting up an ambush-- I don’t know how but I knew.”

“Jade… If you hadn’t shown up I’d be a goner. I don’t know how to thank you.” 

“No need. Just doing my--”

Strider sees the troll coming around the corner behind Jade before he can see them. As soon as he sees the handgun lead the rest of the troll out, he has his Walther lined up and takes the shot the instant he can see the black hair and gray skin of the troll’s head. _Boom, headshot_. 

“We gotta go!” he shouts. He realizes that he’s still hugging Jade, and shouting right into her ear. “Er. We really should be going, love,” he repeats, at a more conversational volume. 

He grasps Harley’s hand in his and starts towards the end of the hallway, littered with broken glass from the window. Before he’s made it even halfway, the sound of heavy footsteps echoes from both directions. Hallway full of heavily armed thugs or 40-story fall? No, leaving isn’t an option until he’s found Eridan Ampora. Sliding the half-spent magazine out of his Walther, he releases Jade’s hand and reaches into his coat pocket to withdraw another. He heads toward the sound of angry trolls out for his blood, sliding the fresh ammo into the magazine well, meeting the resistance and relishing the mechanical _click._

“What are you doing?”

“Reloading. I suggest you do the same.”


	3. THE SECRET AGENT

Cdr Dave Strider, RN, Ret., was never what most would consider to be the military type. Sure, he could get the job done, but stiff upper lip and all that? Forget it. His file was littered with demerits for everything from fraternization to uniform violations, and after a brief 10 years at the rank of Commander he was encouraged to retire. His commanding officer at the time, a pleasant enough fellow, even arranged him an interview at a security agency frequently contracted by the Royal Navy, to cushion the blow. Not that there was much of one: he never bothered telling anyone, but he wasn’t planning on renewing his commission anyway. Frankly, he was fed up with the whole thing.

After landing the new job, he was relatively satisfied to sit at a desk and do the same work he had been doing for the last several years, with less annoying rules and cuter secretaries. However, there was something missing, something he hadn’t expected to miss in the slightest. The Navy was demanding, obnoxious, unreasonable and at the time had seemed immensely dull. But at his desk, going over surveillance data or translating communications for 8 hours a day, he missed the excitement he had completely failed to appreciate. He wanted to smell the sea air, not piped-in air conditioning. He missed his ridiculous service hat, and the rest of the bloody uniform, for that matter. He even missed standing in formations and greeting the seamen on Monday mornings, and hearing them shout their replies in unison. Even moreso than on a ship in the middle of the Atlantic, he felt boxed in.

He began to become more and more of a pain. He stopped bothering to wear suits, opting instead for T-shirts and jeans, throwing a jacket on if he knew the boss would be by. He blasted music in his office so loud the whole floor shook. He dedicated an entire wall to LPs and DJ equipment, which he spent most of his generous salary on. His work got done, and done well, but he just never seemed to want to be there.

One day the boss called him into his office. Sauntering into the secretary’s area outside the massive room, he’d barely begun flirting before she wordlessly buzzed him in. The man was unassuming in every way: average build, brown hair and eyes, wore the same 2-button suit every day. His office was decorated with garish pictures of what looked like clowns, and on one of his walls hung a framed picture of some unfunny American comedian with a mustache. He was starting up his pipe as Dave walked in. “Ah, Mr. Strider--”

“God I love being called that. Sorry, go on.”

“Er, yes. Well, lately it seems you’ve been getting rather a lot of complaints filed about you. Do you know what any of these are about?”

“Probably love letters, I dunno. People want me to DJ their kids’ Bar Mitzvahs?”

“Mr. Strider, let me read one to you. This one says, ‘there’s been a thumping bass sound coming from the office two doors down from mine all week. It never stops, but sometimes it’s punctuated by a string of profanity lasting some minutes in length. When I’m trying to record a memorandum or listen to sensitive information I cannot tolerate these kinds of disturbances. Please, do something!’”

“I guess I can wear headphones from now on. As for the swearing, I’m not gonna admit to that, that could have been anyone.”

“There will be no need for headphones, Mr. Strider. In fact, there will be no need for you to return to your office, either. Your personal possessions are being transported to your home as we speak, and your work will be taken over by a new agent.”

“Woah, woah, wait a second. You’re firing me for rocking too hard?”

“Oh heavens no. Fortunately for you, your quality of work has been excellent, and with your previous service in mind, we simply couldn’t let you go. You’re being transferred to field work.”

In his head, Dave did a little happy dance. Outwardly, he stayed cool. “‘Kay. Do I get a say in this?”

“Well, you could retire, I suppose. But I don’t see why you would-- haven't you ever wanted to be an secret agent?”

“It has a certain appeal. What about my salary?”

“You’ll be making your current wage plus 5 percent, with the same promotion schedule.”

“And an expense account, right?”

The boss’s expression sterned up slightly. “Yes, a _rigidly monitored_ expense account. Don’t get any ideas.”

“Okay, okay. So basically you’re going to send me all over the world, getting into gunfights and seducing all the ladies, shower me with cash, and give me all the gadgets and dope-ass threads and sexy cars I want.”

“Basically.”

“What’s the catch?”

The boss leans back in his chair, taking his pipe out of his mouth and pointing the stem at Strider. “We get to torture you first.”

 

___

 

  
  


The next three months passed like little snippets of dreams. Every now and then Dave snapped into reality, only to find himself doing something that couldn’t possibly be real. He was eating a banana slug. He was suffocating in a 3-foot cube. He would be given a password, then interrogated for it. The trainers starved him, shocked him, beat him, humiliated him. He and his teammates were split up and turned against one another. He learned to communicate with a cellmate using nothing but fingernail taps on reverberating pipes. He learned what you could eat in the jungle-- surprisingly little-- and what could eat you-- pretty much everything. He learned how to take a beating, how to survive a fall, how to keep your wits after three days with no food or sleep. And then one day, he was done. It was the best day of his life. 

Walking out of the processing building was a surreal experience. He hadn’t worn real clothes or shoes for two months, and the sound of low quarters on the hard floor startled him. The first time he saw a female in three months he almost had a heart attack. The first time he saw a dog he wondered how it would taste. The first time he saw a kid he almost cried. But slowly he returned to normalcy, and after a one-week vacation comprised mostly of eating take-out and watching TV, he received his first assignment. That was three years ago.

If he were counting, which he wasn’t, this would be his 82th mission. He averaged one every two weeks or so, and the timing rules were very strict. He’d spend a week on preparatory status before the mission. He’d have a weigh-in, a fitness examination, and a nutritionist-approved meal plan. They made sure he was in the absolute finest shape possible before deploying him. For 24 hours before the mission, he was ordered to rest and relax, study the case dossier, and get plenty of rest. When it was time, he was always in top form-- he quickly established himself as a superior agent and extremely capable, whether at the shooting range or the driving range. 

Following a mission, he was given three days of leave. These days passed in a blur of pretty women, strong drinks, and loud music. Then he’d be given his new case file in preparation for the next mission and spend a few office days getting and giving briefings, teaching classes, and keeping his shooting skills up.

Sometimes they’d send him to the countryside for driver training or other such distractions. He’d attended classes on bomb disposal and IED identification, basic computer and Internet security bypassing, and even learned the basics of how to fly a helicopter. One time he went to a class dedicated to sleight-of-hand and learned how to reorder a deck of cards, how to pick a pocket, and how to plant a bug. As his skills increased, so too did the difficulty of his missions.

After only three years, he was promoted to Senior Field Agent and given an increase in pay and security clearance. Increasingly his job included dealing with Trolls, who tended to be very dangerous. He audited classes on troll history, culture and society, how they thought, how they fought. Ever since they’d appeared and set up colonies on earth, human/troll relationships had been rocky, and conflicts were common. Their organ structure was different and their muscle tissue was thicker, so trying to fight one as though he was human would be fruitless. Sun Tzu said _understand your enemy_ , and aliens or no, that wisdom still rang true today.

But this was the first mission Dave Strider had been given in which he’d have to deal with Eridan Ampora, aka Dualscar, codenamed Fins. One of the most dangerous trolls on the planet by reputation, this highblood had far overstepped his boundaries, which were sizable enough. He’d gained the moniker Orphaner after killing an American congresswoman and single parent, leaving her four children in the care of the state. She’d been attempting a bill that would result in ID-tagging every Troll in the US, to curb rising troll-related smuggling and gang crime. The seatroll had one of his underlings wardrive and hack a communication tower so that he could execute her on live television. Hell of a way to make an entrance.

The case came up immediately. He had already been getting spun up for another case, but it was bumped down for the Fins job. He was deployed within 72 hours.

 

At operation start (T) +155 minutes, Dave slides the half-spent magazine out of his Walther. He releases Jade’s hand and reaches into his coat pocket to withdraw another. He reloads, uncaptchalogues his bulletproof vest and then his spare, and whips off his soiled, expensive coat. Simultaneously walking forwards, strapping on the heavy kevlar, and holding the gun between his teeth, he motions with his head towards the second protective garment. 

“I’m not wearing one of those, are you kidding?!” she asks, incredulously. In a flash, she changes back into her Iron Man armor and follows him. The design is different from the original he read about the USAF acquiring a contract to use from Stark industries. It’s more feminine, but still intimidating as hell. Even robotic armor looks sexy on Jade Harley. 

The sound of approaching trolls is growing louder. “You ready?”

“I should be asking you!” she replies, chipper as ever. There’s a smear of troll blood on her cheek the color of deli mustard. He takes his finger and wipes it off. 

“I have complete faith in you. When we get out of here, drinks are on me.”

Harley blushes again, glancing downwards. “Gee, Dave-- I mean Greg-- I don’t...” But she isn’t able to finish. She whips her head toward the end of the hallway, all business all of a sudden. 

“TOOK YOU SONS OF BITCHES LONG ENOUGH! I BROUGHT YOU SOMETHING~!” She uncaptchalogues a _big_ fucking gun. Dave’s shades helpfully inform him it’s an M-32 Riot Grenade Launcher. They ask if he’d like to read the manual. The manual is a hundred and seventy pages long. He declines. 

Jade _Thoonk_ s out a grenade toward the end of the hall she’s facing, laughing all the while, then wheels the thing vertically over her head, scraping the high ceiling of the hall, and blindfires it backwards, one-handed. Simultaneously, a small sunburst of flame and earth-toned blood splatters around the two corners of the hallways, followed by arcing jaggedly-severed limbs and concussed trolls, rag-dolled and flailing. But there’s still more coming, based on the shouting and pounding footsteps. Jade recaptchalogues the riot gun and uncaptchalogues an even bigger one, which Strider’s shades inform him is called an M2 var. GAU-18/A. The display informs him this is the model commonly used on USAF attack helicopters. A long belt of ammunition extends out of the side of thing, and a tripod mount dangles uselessly from the bottom-- she’s holding the fucking thing in one hand. 

“YEAH, MOTHERFUCKERS! MOMMA’S GOT A MA DEUCE! WHADDA YOU SHITSTAINS GOT?!”

Dave looks down at his Walther PPK. Well, at least no one can accuse him of compensating for anything. He raises the handgun, automatically assuming a firing position and lining up the iron sights at average head height. No matter whether the thing you’re trying to kill has a brain or a thinkpan, a headshot is a headshot, and he’s got limited ammo. Jade, obviously without this disadvantage, has already opened fire on the trolls behind him, but he wasn’t lying when he told her he trusted her. He doesn’t even need to turn around to know what’s happening, and anyway it’s probably not a pretty thing to watch. 

He inhales. Holding the gun steady, he doesn’t even flinch as several trolls leap over the corpses of their grenaded comrades. Holding his weapon steady, he fires nine times. Three of the trolls go down, each with a shot to the head and two to the belly-- 9mm ammo can’t pierce a troll’s ribcage. The remaining ones draw beads on him and he’s only got 1 round left in this clip. 

He exhales slowly. It’s going to be a long night.


	4. THE UNDERTAKER'S WIND

Captchalouging as it’s understood by engineers is a relatively simple concept in theory but a difficult one to execute, due to the immense dataload on whatever computer systems operate each end. When the Capcha Corporation produced the first working units in the 70’s, each end was literally a room. There was a bank of computers and a platform on which an object could be placed or received, depending on the room-- earlier models were one-way. As the computer technology improved, so too did the speed and efficiency of transportation, until 1983, when a test object was sent to Caltech from MIT and back. The only catch was due to the structural limitations, only simple, solid objects with relatively consistent internal structure could be sent: bricks, iron ore, water. Even wood was too complex. 

Scientists developed a shortcut for this in the form of the Alchemiter, a machine that used a polyfoam compound, called a totem and shaped in a machine called a totem lathe, to synthesize complex matter in an easily replicable manner. By allotting a different material for each easily programmable component of the object, you could literally create anything in existence, given enough time and money. 

The process went like this. Let’s say someone want to create a metal cube with a sphere-shaped hollow inside it, and then within that they wanted a small rubber ball. They’d first take some polyfoam, commonly known as “grist”, and put it in the lathe. Operating the lathe with a computer console, they would use the handy software to design a 3D model of whatever they wanted. The fine instruments on the lathe shape the mold into whatever form had been designed, to a remarkable degree of accuracy-- enough to reproduce circuit boards. Once the shaping is done, there would have been produced the cube of grist with the sphere-shaped hollow inside it, and a small grist ball inside that. There are several ways of accomplishing this task-- boring a hole and clearing out the hollow, then filling the hole as the robotic tool arms are withdrawn; or making the shape out of a stack of thin sheets punched with different-sized circles in the correct sequence. These methods are but two of many. 

Now,  the totem would be set on the Alchemiter’s replication platform. Cutting-edge robotic technology uses the 3D model on the computer to replace the designated parts of the totem with the materials the user chooses. For simple materials like 7075 aluminum alloy-- the metal in M16 rifles-- it’s a matter of having a solid block lying around. The computer takes an image of the molecular structure of the material and transmits the code as data to the receiving end of the system. This can be easy, in the case of base elements, or hard, like anything else. 

The computer then “maps” the 3D image of the item, aligning each lowest-common-denominator cell a 3-digit coordinate. The number of cells is usually large for a person but small for a computer to process. in a 10,000 by 10,000 by 10,000 cube, there are ten billion cells, each with 3 5-digit coordinates and an 11-digit designation number- totalling some 32 (2^5) digits per line, including spaces. 320 billion individual characters, or bits, totalling some 40 gigabits of data, or 5 gigabytes. A bit of clever coding and throwing out the hollow spaces can reduce this number substantially, to around 400 megs of data. Each cell is designated a unique material code, a blueprint of what to be synthesized as on the receiving end, increasing the code’s size significantly. The Captchalogue is capable of synthesizing almost any nonliving material, making machinery a snap-- but forget about a new liver. The file is then uploaded into a server and designated a “captcha code,” a quick-access number that corresponds to the item contained within the code.

The final figure allows the receiving Captchalogue unit to see a 3D model of intricately designed complex structures-- not just data forms but a code that completely represents a physical item. The user only needs to input the short code from a card on his or her person, and the item will appear right in front of them, instantaneously constructed via a process that’s way beyond David Strider’s understanding or pay grade, aside from the fact that it involves satellites. It’s an astounding concept, sending physical material in the form of data, but Dave relies on it every mission.

Such as facing an onslaught of lethal trolls with nothing but one handgun with one bullet on his person. He can see three, but he hears more, or it might just be the same shouts echoing in his head. His partner’s enthusiastic gunplay behind him is making it hard to focus. He regrets using a textbook 3-shots-1-kill method on the previous three trolls when he could have most likely just shot them in the heads. Those big orange horns make it easy to aim. 

As if to prove this point, he expends his last round on the leftmost troll, as they begin firing at him with their Chinese knockoff Berettas. The bullet finds the troll’s cheekbone and he’s yanked mid-stride, collapsing and sliding slightly as his corpse comes to a stop. Crackles pound Strider’s ears as the remaining trolls burn through their magazines, and one or two rounds even hit his kevlar-protected chest. The pounding sensation is immensely painful-- no punch or kick he’s ever endured could compare-- but he survives the onslaught. It’s a good thing these bums have such lousy aim. 

It takes physical effort to suck in air, as one of his ribs may be broken or at least cracked, but he breathes in and begins to run towards them. The pain in his chest ebbs as adrenaline takes over. He’s dropped the spent Walther PPK behind him and his hands knife through the air as he gains speed. The trolls have tossed their guns aside as well and have begun to withdraw other weapons from their suit jackets. One equips himself with a small revolver, probably a knockoff as well, and the other takes out... is that a fucking _mace?_

Dave leaps into the air, willing the microcaptcha chip in his shades to send a request through the satellite for an item with the code Emi89dsn (he has this one memorized). As he’s travelling through the air, he can already feel the grip hardening in his hand. He brings the fully formed blade down on the shoulder of the troll wielding the mace, slicing a good foot into his torso. Swinging the dying troll around using the sword as a handle, he uses the unfortunate thug as a shield for the volley of bullets that follows from the other troll, before using a foot to wrench the corpse off his sword and onto his partner. The still-living troll staggers under the weight of the corpse, and Dave uses this opportunity to stab through both torsos, striking the gun-wielding troll in the approximate location of his vascular organ conglomerate superstructure. His eyes lose their lucidity and then close, a trickle of orange blood escaping between his fangs.

Strider, assured of safety in his immediate future, turns around. The scene of carnage that greets his shaded eyes is too horrible to describe. He turns around again, reaches for a pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket, remembers he quit years ago, and swears somberly and quietly. All he can hear is Jade Harley’s maniacal laughter and her M2’s roar. Suddenly, though, the gun quiets and stops, and her laughter dies down. She shoulders the massive machine gun.

“Phew! All done!” she chirps, dusting off her hands as if she’s just finished baking a fucking pie.

“Oh, is that it? You don’t have a few dozen more to kill?”

Jade’s lips purse. “Hey, just be glad most of them came on this side. If you’d had to take out this many with that dinky little PPK--”

“Oh, we are so not having this conversation. Just no, don’t you even-”

“I’m just saying, if you had been prepared-”

“We weren’t even supposed to fight anyone! This was supposed to be intel-gathering, and that’s it!”

“A good agent is prepared for anything!”

“Oh, so a good agent is anyone with a captchalouge network capable of an _entire armory_ -”

“Oh, so that’s what this is. You’re jealous!”

“My dear, nothing could be further from the truth.”

“You don’t think I can do it on my own! You think I need some-- some _man_ , I’m sure-- to tell me what to do and send me guns and save my helpless womanly ass. Alright, agent Strider, let’s do it, right here, right now.” The agent tosses her enormous gun aside, where it lands in a small lake of troll blood and causes a sizable splash.

“Jade, dear, please, calm down.” Dave gently places his sword on the ground, and begins taking off his kevlar.

Jade uncaptchalogues the mechanical armor, leaving her in a form-fitting neoprene-styled bodysuit that seems to be the first layer of the uniform. She assumes an Aikido stance. “Scared? I’m not gonna hurt you. Much.” She jibes, giving him a _bring it_ motion with her outstretched hand.

Dave has no option-- his pride is on the line. “Fine. But this wasn’t my idea, and anyway, we have much more important shit to be taking care of.” He assumed his natural fighting stance, learned from his Krav Maga instructor. “First to pin, then can we bloody get on with it?”  
“Sounds good, champ.” Jade quips, and takes a step forward. Dave has chosen an open stance, meaning their bodies are both facing the same way. From what he knows of Aikido, grappling would be the best way to win this fight. Any strike he attempts would most likely end up with his ass on the ground. He edges closer.

Jade strikes like a cobra. Before he can blink, she’s within an arms length, sending an elbow towards his chin. _Muay Thai?!_ Dave barely has time to register, barely edging out of the way before her knee finds his stomach. All the wind is knocked out of him, but instead of throwing him and winning the impromptu match, she leaps backwards, assuming a catlike stance. 

“I mentioned my Aikido, may have forgotten to mention my experience with Muay Thai and Wushu. Still wanna go?” She’s grinning.

Dave reels slightly, regaining his balance. Aside from his weekend crash course in Krav Maga, he’s got no formal fighting training to speak of. He’s clearly outmatched, but that’s never been a good enough reason for him to give up before.

He rushes at her, center of gravity low and base wide, attempting a tackle. She reacts as he’d expected her to- a sidestep into a surgical lunge for the back of his knee. 

In the blink of an eye, he shifts weight and draws his body back, putting all his force into a side kick but hitting nothing. He’s suddenly aware of a presence before him as his base is knocked away, sending him unceremoniously to the floor, and Jade Harley slides her lithe legs around his arm and neck in a textbook triangle hold. His breathing is restricted but she’s not choking him. The match is settled. 

As the excitement wears off slightly, she becomes aware of their position. Her thighs are around his neck, one of his arms in her grasp wrenched over her shoulder. She blushes slightly. “Do you give up?”

“Errgh-- never!” grunts Strider ironically, face turning red.

“I don’t know if this match was conclusive enough. Wanna pick one of these rooms and do a bit more grappling? I could lose the bodysuit, if you want.” She grins.

An unfamiliar voice from the end of the hall sounds out. “Sounds fun. Mind if I come along?” In a split second both agents are back on their feet, any feud instantly forgotten. 

The speaker is none other than the Spiderbitch herself, Vriska Serket, dressed in a beautiful blue satin evening gown adorned with a shining spiderweb pattern, with a zodiac symbol on the breast in red, to match her high-heeled shoes. Her long fangs are glimmering in a grin of such cruelty Dave begins to sweat-- _no, it was just from the fight. Be cool, Strider._ She’s tossing a handful of small blue stones up in the air and catching them, and as she begins to walk towards them, Dave begins to notice more and more just how unbelievably attractive she really is in person. He’s seen the dossier, but her fine features, her graceful body, and her glowing eyes-- especially the left one-- are so _compelling_.

“Dave! Come on!” shouts Jade, slapping him across the face. “She uses mind control, remember? Don’t fall for it!”

“Right.” Said Dave, cognizant of and slightly embarrassed by the low, mocking laughter emanating from that slate-gray, perfectly smooth throat-- _GODDAMMIT DAVE THIS IS NOT THE TIME BE COOL BE FUCKING COOL!_

But even as the two square off against the chuckling troll woman, there’s a sound from behind. It’s the enormous, long-haired male troll Jade was talking to earlier. 

“Such conduct-- at an event organized by a highblood no less-- have you no concept of propriety?” he grumbles. He steps over the riddled corpses of the gunned-down trolls and he approaches the agents. “Who did this?” He points at the piles of bodies. His tone is relatively calm, but it’s clear he’s fighting back anger.

“I did!” replied Jade, turning to face him. 

“In that case your opponent will be me. As much as I cannot stand such barbarism on a night such as tonight, it’s my solemn duty as a blueblood to-”

“Oh would you just can it?!” shouts Vriska from the opposite end of the hall. “You want to fight her cause you get off on it, everyone knows that.”

The huge troll’s face goes faintly blue and he begins to sweat. “That’s not true!” he says, loud enough for the spidertroll to hear. Then he turns to Jade and repeats himself. “It’s not true, you see, it’s my solemn duty as a blueblood to-” 

“Whatever!” shouts Jade, assuming her fighting pose. “Let’s just fucking fight already!”

Dave is somehow able to facepalm and still keep his dignity.


	5. THE PROPERTY OF A LADY

“OK, Serket. How do you want to do this?” Dave asks, massaging his temples. Just being near her is giving him a bit of a headache. No matter how this is gonna go down, not looking at her is probably the best bet. 

“Well, agent Dave Strider, seeing as how I’m better than you at just about everything, I thought we might enjoy a game of chance? Square the playing field a bit, or the pitch as you’d call it, hmm? That said, I’d still have the advantage-- after all, I do have-”

“All the luck, yeah, I’ve read your file. Bloody cheat is what you are, just really damn good at it.” Dave replies, squaring his shoulders and facing her. The breeze is wafting her perfume towards him. She smells like ash and cinnamon. 

“You good back there, Harley?” He calls, not turning around. 

“Mind your own fucking business, I’m still mad at you!” Comes Jade’s reply. “You’re lucky another punching bag came along or you’d have two angry women to deal with!”

Serket palms the small blue stones, then tosses four of them from one hand to the other. She stretches out her fine grey hands, a blue octahedron between each manicured finger-- eight in all. “The name of the game is Baccarat. We’re gonna use these dice instead of cards. You know the rules, yeah? Winner takes all… In other words, a match to the death.”

Strider smirks. “Sounds like a blast, babe. We just gonna play here in the hall or should we find a more appropriate venue?”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to miss the show…” The troll’s voice is dark and low, but there’s a distinctly girlish note there-- ears less trained than Striders’ would probably miss it. It’s demanding, sultry, exciting. This Vriska Serket is a hell of a woman. 

This is actually going to be fun. 

Dave turns to follow her gaze and the two opponents spend a moment watching the hallway’s other occupants. In predictable American Female Agent style, Jade’s unzipped her bodysuit to her chest, exposing a fair bit of pale, freckled cleavage-- still not as much as her gown earlier had, but nonetheless better than before. The irony is not lost on Strider-- no irony ever is. The effect her exposed flesh is having on the huge muscular troll is quite different, though.

“Really, madam, I insist you at least _attempt_ to dress appropriately! It’s a custom-”

“Take your bullshit custom and shove it! We gonna do this or not!?”

“Hrrm. Fine. Very well, I shall begin.” The troll gives his massive forehead a cursory wipe and arranges his hands in an odd pose, something akin to a Sagittarius symbol. “My name is Equius, from the noble line of-” 

Jade has taken a running start and launched herself in a flying kick right towards the troll’s brawny chest. Somewhere along the way, she cries “Fuck youuuuuu!” 

She connects with a _whack_ and rebounds, landing on the ground in front of him on three points. He shows absolutely no ill effect. Didn’t even teeter.

Wait, something’s happening. He’s reaching into his pocket, pulls something out. It’s a dismally cracked pair of tinted sunglasses. With a shaky hand, he flips the temples open and slides them onto his scowling face. He begins to speak in a solemn tone. “ _Human._ I’ve extended the courtesy befitting a blueblood to you, and you slapped it away. You continue to insult my honor. You have proven yourself shameless, incapable of respect, and utterly filthy of mind and spirit. I’m having serious trouble controlling myself.” 

“Ha! That’s what your mom said, fuckass!” Jade calls back, sticking out her tongue.

Dave turns around. “I can’t watch this shit, it’s embarrassing. On behalf of the entire human race, I apologize.”

“Whatever! I have important people to fuck-and-or-kill after this, so let’s get started!” Vriska crows, flipping her long snarls of black hair. She tosses Dave four of the blue dice. “You roll two. Add ‘em up and you want the total to be as close to a number ending in a nine as possible. If you want, you can roll a third one, but that’s it.”

“I know how to play baccarat. I’m a secret agent,” Strider replies, cool as ever. 

The troll woman’s black lips curl into a half-smile. “Outstanding.” She withdraws a cell phone, pokes it a bit, and a display comes up on Strider’s shades. He’s got ten thousand boonbucks’ worth of credit to use in the game.

If there’s one thing Strider knows for sure, it’s that this game isn’t going to come down to luck. It’s going to come down to who can cheat better. And Vriska Serket is an absolute world-class grandmaster of cheating. She didn’t just write the book, she wrote the reference library. She’s wanted on outstanding warrants for impersonating doctors, lawyers, a judge on one occasion, police officers female _and_ male, and more than a few federal agents. The file flashing on Dave’s shades warns him based on police reports from the last two years she can bench 200 kilograms and run 5 kilometers in 10 minutes. Sabotage, grand larceny, arson, dozens of counts of public intoxication, the list goes on and on. 

Plus there’s the mind control thing.

Externally, Dave is cool as a cucumber, but his mind is buzzing. If he can’t come up with a plan quick, this is the end for him. The troll has weaknesses, they’re just hard to spot-- but the one thing he has over her will be the key to his victory, if he can last long enough to exploit it. He tosses two of the dice, barely paying attention to oh wow an 8 that’s pretty good.

Predictably Vriska flicks the dice out of her hand and rolls a 9, first try. One 4 and one 5. 

Fuck. 

“Hahaha! I tried to warn you, but _noooooooo_! You still thought you could win. What a loser!” Vriska’s jeers barely faze Dave. In fact, it’s all he can do to keep from smirking.

If he can just get her overconfident enough to drop her tricks, he’ll have her. He knows her temper is the weak point in her defenses. Pride goeth before a fall, as they say, and while Dave Strider is anything but a humble man, he’s at least less vain than the vainest troll in existence. 

“Not bad,” he allows. “By the way, I can’t help but notice you look ravishing tonight. And what on Earth _is_ that scent?” He collects the pair of dice from the carpeted floor.

“It’s nothing on Earth at all, as a matter of fact. It’s Alternian. Now let’s see…” She jabs her cell phone and Dave’s shades inform him he’s lost 1,000 boonbucks.

“Well, that explains it. Guess I’d better get serious, eh? Alright then.” He tosses the dice again. It’s a 6. Vriska rolls a round 9 once again: he now has 8,000 bucks left. 

“Blast.”

Meanwhile, he’s captchalogued the two other dice Vriska gave him and informed CQ via his shades he needs visually-identical copies made, weighted for the high-range numbers. They tell him one minute and they’ll send them right into the pocket he captcha’d the original pair from. He gives them 45 seconds.

7,000. 6,000. He’s running out of time. Fortunately, he’s still got a full tank of banter. If he didn’t take a break to chat Serket up between rounds, he’d be dead before the altimeter crew could even get their shit in gear. 

“Now let me ask you something I’ve never had a chance to check, Serket, my dear. Those lovely horns of yours-- are they an erogenous zone? Please, stop me if I’m being too forward.”

Vrisket merely cackles, exposing those shiny, sharp fangs. “Why don’t you come over here and give ‘em a rub? ‘Course, I _kept_ the last hands that touched them…”

“Woah, babe, I’m just trying to bridge the mysterious gap between our two species. No need to go all Starship Troopers on me.” 

Dave collects the dice from the floor. The new ones appear in his pocket. “You know what, you’ve rolled four 9’s in a row. Sorry to throw your godlike luck into question, but where I’m from this is about when we cry foul. I’m calling for a trade.” As he’s saying this, he palms the normal dice, replacing them with the loaded ones in an indistinguishable exchange. He holds out the loaded dice.

“You want to change dice? Fine by me. I don’t need to tamper with my tools to get results. Here,” She swaggers over to him and swipes the fixed dice out of his hand, then disdainfully replaces them with her ostensibly normal ones. For a second, it seems her face betrays a look of worry. Maybe he’s just imagining it. He tosses them and catches them a couple times, nods once, and lets them fly. 8 and  6, totaling 4. Vriska cackles again, and tosses her dice. She rolls two 7s, also equaling 4. They briefly make eye contact-- Dave through his shades and Vriska through her thin glasses. She’s got no smart comment, in fact she’s visibly shaken by her poor roll. 

They each ready another dice, then Dave puts his back and says, “You know? I’ll stand. Let’s let this hinge on your luck.” She grudgingly tosses the die. An 8. Total score of 2 now. Dave wins. 

Winning one isn’t enough though-- he’s got to ensure his victory further. He messages CQ to manufacture a new pair that will statistically roll him mostly 8’s and 9’s. They say they’ll do what they can. 

Vriska is no longer smiling. She’s checking the dice over, looking for any signs, but the altimeter crew back at base are good- she can’t detect any flaws. “What, can’t stand to lose even once? Come on, love, don’t keep me waiting.”

The spidertroll wordlessly rolls the dice. 8 and 7, total of 5. She begrudgingly throws another one. Another 8, for a total score of 3 to Dave’s 6. 

“OK, what the fuck did you do?” she growls, glaring at Strider. Her fine shoulders bunch and her fists clench.

“I didn’t do a damn thing. I have to conclude you were using loaded dice before, based on these last few results, and I just ended up with them. Tell you what, I’ll just toss these ones out,” he tosses the pair behind his shoulders and towards the sounds of Jade and Equius brawling, “And use the other two you gave me. Think you can toss me your fourth dice to use as a backup?” 

Vriska has no choice but to comply. Now stuck with dice loaded against her, Vriska’s luck won’t be enough to web her a victory. Dave reaches into his pocket and pulls out the freshly minted loaded pair, captchaloguing the other pair of normal dice. He’s set, everything is going in his favor. “How about a raise? Instead of 1,000 per hand, let’s do 3.” He’s amazed that Vriska hasn’t seen through his plan, or if she has, hasn’t reacted to it. The score quickly seesaws from 8,000-12,000 in Vriska’s favor to 17,000-3,000 in Dave’s. Vriska is so angry she’s practically steaming. Dave, cool as ever, plays it off. 

“Well, last round. Here’s hoping this little run of luck continues,” and he carelessly tosses the dice. 9. “That’s game, unless you can match it.”

“Fuck you. Fuck you _hard_.” Vriska replies, and with an intense look of concentration on her stone-colored face, she rolls the dice like one might release a lightning bug trapped in one’s hands.

The dice skip across the carpet. One by one they stop. 8, and another 8. Total of 6.

“That’s game. It’s been a pleasure, Miss Serket, and now I suppose it’s time I collect my reward.” Killing Serket is out of the question. She’s too valuable as a source of information.

Vriska looks remarkably composed, considering this may be the first loss of her entire career. “Very well. Whatever it is you want. I expect it’s my life?” She tosses her long mane of dark hair over her shoulder. “Though it’s a real shame, if you ask me, cutting a specimen like me down in my prime. I suppose I deserve it though, having done the same to countless others.”

“Actually I had another reward in mind. Something a bit more pleasant for the both of us,” Strider replies coolly. “A kiss, if you’d be so kind, and perhaps your phone number so I could give you a ring if I’m feeling lonely.” This might not be the best idea but this is an opportunity no man would pass up.

From the far end of the hall, “I’m still here, Strider!” 

Vriska Serket’s delicate cheekbones assume a cerulean hue. “Well then… If that’s all… I suppose I could be convinced…” She sidles towards him, black lips already parting slightly. Strider is wary for traps, but honestly it’s hard to stay focused with a powerful psychic coming at you with sloppy makeouts in mind. He reminds himself to stand up straight, be careful of her eye, and most of all make sure Jade sees them.

The troll makes contact first. She wraps her slender arms around his shoulders, being almost as tall as him, and splays her palms on his shoulder blades. Drawing her body into his, she feels along his jawbone with her cheek, exhaling a breath that smells of exotic spices-- coriander, cardamom, caraway, he’s not even sure. “Something like this?” She whispers. 

Dave Strider’s senses are absolutely overwhelmed with Vriska right now; she pervades each and every one of them. Being near her is a whole different experience. If he doesn’t take the initiative the opportunity will soon be gone. He slides his hands around her thin waist, pulls her closer to him, dives for her lips. Dear God she tastes like hot embers and smoke in the eyes.

He slides a hand up her back, uncovered by the gown she’s wearing, and traces the smooth skin along her spine. Her body is all knotted muscle and sinew, but as he buries the hand in the curls at the nape of her neck he marvels at the softness of her hair. Her tongue slides over his lip, along his teeth. He responds in kind. She moans. He explores her tandoor of a mouth with his tongue, relishing the warmth and alien taste. _Come on Strider,_ he thinks finally, _enough is enough, you’ve got shit to DO tonight._

Reluctantly he pulls away, eliciting a disappointed mumble from the troll. For a moment everything melts away and there’s nothing but the two of them; no jobs, identities, grudges, even the fact they’re from different planets doesn’t matter. Then it’s gone, quickly as it came. 

“Here’s my card,” he whispers, palming one of the broken record cards. “Call me anytime.”

“Sleight of hand. So that’s how you did it,” she says, a knowing smirk failing to disguise the heavy blush on her cheeks.

“My darling, if you want to know what these hands can do, you only need to call that number.” And with that he turns away. Vriska just smiles and slips the card into her clutch purse, before exiting the hall the way she came in, with perhaps a fraction less swagger to the sway of her hips.

Honestly, that could have gone much worse.

“Jade, are you quite done? We’ve still got a fishtroll to fry, you know!”

“Just a second!” she shouts, still facing down the massive weirdo of a troll. He seems to be on the brink. With a well-placed punch to the face, Jade sends couple of his broken teeth flying, and with a _THOOM_ he collapses onto the floor clearly unconscious. “OK, all done. Man, that felt good. It’s weird though-- almost like he enjoyed being choked...”

“You know, Harley, you really are something else. I admit I had my doubts, but I can honestly say I’ve never had the pleasure of working with a more capable-- or beautiful-- field agent in my life.”

“You’re not bad yourself, Mr. Strider. I figured you were all looks and no brains, but outwitting Vriska Serket isn’t a job for any old cannon fodder.”

 “Stop, you’re gonna make me blush. Now I’m knackered and in need of a stiff drink, so let’s just find this watery bastard and be done with it.”


	6. THE SPY WHO LOVED ME

For the first time since Dave’s arrived on it, the hotel’s 40th floor is completely silent. After he’d recovered his dinner jacket and Jade changed back into the sparkling evening gown-- apparently a spare since it was suddenly free of bloodstains-- the pair went about finding Eridan Ampora once and for all. According to the information he was getting from his shades, the floor had been booked solid as a security measure for the sole occupant, but Jade had received satellite thermal imaging reports confirming the presence of at least five living bodies on the floor as of a few minutes ago. Including them, Vriska, and Equius, that leaves one more-- and it sure couldn’t be any of the thugs whose innards now decorated the walls and ceiling.

Strider’s iPhone chirps a little tritone at him, and reflexively he fishes it out of his jacket pocket where he’d put it only moments before. One new text message, number not in his address book. 

 _8gent D8ve Strider, this will not 8e the last time we meeeeeeeet :::;) -Vriska._ He saves the number but chooses not to send it to CQ. 

“Is that from your new girlfriend?” teases Jade, though with just a hint of sincerity. Her gorgeous green eyes are on him, eliminating any chance he can get away with lying.

“If you mean international criminal Vriska Serket, number 2 on the FBI’s most wanted list of trolls, then yes. She totally wants this,” says Dave, an unironic smile threatening to festoon itself upon his perfectly inscrutable face as he gestures at himself, tip to toe. 

But Jade’s already turned away, looking back and forth from her cell phone to the gold numbers adorning the doors in the hallway. “According to the thermal imaging satellite, there should be someone around… here. But like twenty feet that way.” She points a pink digit ahead and to her left of the door they’re standing in front of. Now in another corridor free of corpses and chunky troll detritus, the way seems much less encumbered. They begin to walk in the direction she’d pointed.

“I don’t know why you’re mad. You and that bodybuilder troll with the hair seemed to hit it off pretty well,” Strider chides, giving Harley a nudge. 

“Ok, first of all, eww! Guy probably doesn’t even know what a shower is. Secondly, I don’t wanna be racist or whatever, but I don’t see myself going out with a troll.”

“Woah, there it is. You just took the elephant in the room and put a fancy hat on it. Now everyone can see the elephant. And we’re all a little embarrassed for you.” Dave’s neutral tone doesn’t belie a hint of mirth.

“Hey, sorry, man, it’s just-- by the way, it’s this door here-- something about their skin. It doesn’t feel like people skin. It’s different.”

“Woah, so trolls aren’t people now? And wait, just how much troll skin have you been touching, ma’am?”

“A lady doesn’t kiss and tell,” replies Jade, uncaptchalouging a shotgun. The blond agent doesn’t need his shades to inform him it’s a Mossberg 500-- the small size and lack of a stock are indication enough. She signals him to kick in the door, nods once, and blasts the card-entry lock. Strider slams the heel of his bloodstained shoe into the door, just to the left of the remains of the lock, and the door flies open. Harley takes a deep breath, charges into the room, drops into a low firing position, and inspects the room, eyes on ironsights. She waves Dave into the room after her, never removing her eyes from their task of sweeping for threats. Dave follows in after her, reliable Walther PPK reloaded with new ammo sent from CQ via captcha. 

The main room is dark. Strider’s amplified-light sunglasses are helping cut through the blackness-- irony alert-- and his eyes are immediately drawn to the fluttering of the curtains partially concealing an open window. The moon stares in at them, showing up a contrasting white stain among the agent’s field of vision. There’s no noise, not even enough breeze to rustle the cloth, but Dave doesn’t let his guard down for a second.

Strider and Harley proceed to check the rest of the suite’s rooms, but there’s no sign of the fishtroll. There are definite signs of having been lived in though: one chair has a purple cape flung across it and there are a few precious-looking rings strewn carelessly across the matching desk. A laptop computer of unfamiliar make sits open but the display is blank. 

Satisfied that they’re alone, Strider turns to his companion. “What do you make of it?”

Harley scratches her freckled nose contemplatively. “Laptop’s still here so he probably didn’t bail. Then again, he might be expecting a cleanup crew to come along and destroy the evidence. Still though… I just don’t think that’s what happened.”

“Your little feelings have already saved my life one time tonight; I’m inclined to trust them a second. So do we wait, or do we look somewhere else? Air Force sending you anything?”

“No… but we should definitely stay. There’s dozens of places to go in a hotel like this: just offhand, he could be at one of three restaurants, the pool, or even at his party with his stupid guests. I don’t wanna sound like a creeper, but staying put and waiting to get the drop on him is the right thing to do.” She sounds confident, but when she looks at Dave, by her expression it doesn’t seem like she’s quite made her mind up.

“That’s exactly what I think as well. I shall have to remember to draft a nice thank-you letter to the Yankee AF thanking them for sending me a partner of such erudition.”

In the amplified-light display of Dave’s shades, Jade’s blush is obvious. She looks downwards and smiles weakly. “Please… I don’t even know what that means…”

“If fact, erudite isn’t even close to sufficient to describe you, my dear. After all, to merely compliment your keen instincts and intellect would be a great injustice to your beauty,” Dave can’t resist continuing, stepping slightly closer to the girl. “Your fair skin, your stunningly green eyes, your charming smile...” She’s fidgeting with her fingers nervously. He takes her hands.

“Dave… We’re alone in a dark hotel room. I know what you’re trying to do.” God, those buck teeth are endearing.

Dave leans in until his lips are nearly touching hers. “Then why aren’t you trying to get away?”

He releases her hands and they immediately slide to his back, as he wraps his arms around her. Their lips meet in a kiss of passion unrivaled in Dave’s memory-- and he has a long memory. He strokes her freckled back, her fine shoulders, brings up a hand and tucks a stray lock of jet black hair behind her ear. She’s squeezing him so hard it hurts, and he likes it. Acutely aware they may be in danger at any moment only makes the moment that more intense. 

Jade’s strong, cool hands are everywhere. They trace Dave’s jaw, prickling his scratchy 5 o’clock shadow, and bury themselves in his blond hair. He reciprocates by sliding his own calloused hands down Jade’s back and settling on the swell of her hips. She reaches a thin arm down and takes one of his hands in hers.

“Dave… There’s a time and place for this kind of thing. I want to, I really do… But how about we save it for the celebration? We can do the whole deal-- candlelit dinner and everything.”

“You’d better stop talking, Harley, everything you say is wonderful I don’t think I’m authorized to fall in love with a foreign national.”

Jade smiles warmly and looks slightly downwards again, too strong to admit she’s embarrassed. Hell, Strider’s a bit embarrassed. He’s never been a master of his own feelings, especially towards women, but Jade is stirring things up within him he’s having approximately no trouble deciphering. Warm, glowing, wonderful feelings. Dave doesn’t like them.

Jade nuzzles against his neck, not willing to pull away. Strider strokes the girl’s hair, trying not to think about anything and just enjoy the moment. No matter what he feels about it-- and really, who cares, sure as hell not him-- it’s still a good moment. Minutes pass like this.

 

 

But as they both knew it would, the moment had to end. Over Jade’s soft breathing Dave hears the pat pat pat of footsteps approaching down the carpeted hallway. Reflexively but reluctantly, the two separate and assume their positions. As the footsteps get louder, the sound of Eridan Ampora’s muttered voice can be interpreted. 

“...Glubbin’ Serket, playin’ her fucked-up murder games… Vhat’s her deal, leavin’ a hundred glubbin’ corpses in my hallvay, cleanup’s goin’ to cost a glubbin’ fortune… Vhat ze fuck!?” He’s arrived at the doorway and noticed the snarled twist of brass that was formerly his lock before Harley’s Mossberg had its say. Dave can see a little through the door. He sizes the aquatic troll up-- about 5’10” before you add 3” for the hair, slight build, admittedly cool purple trousers and vest over a pinstripe shirt, gold cufflinks and watch chain. His bespectacled eyes betray cruelty and malevolence, but mainly a sort of aimless and permanent frustration. So this is Dualscar, the Orphaner.

Before he has the chance to fish-- retrieve his cell phone from within his elaborate vest, Jade leaps out from her position behind the door, socks him once right in the nose, and deftly wrenches one of his arms up. She’s upcaptchalouging a heavy-duty zip tie to secure his thumbs but before the thing can materialize, Ampora hoists his irregularly-bent arm upwards, sending Jade flying backwards. Dave takes this as a cue to rush into the hallway, leading with his PPK.

“No! He’s my mission too! I’m taking this bastard out myself!” yells Jade, rising to her feet. Never one to ruin someone’s cool-- and that was a pretty cool thing to say, seriously-- Strider lowers his gun but keeps the criminal in clear view. Ampora regards the two of them disinterestedly.

“You two are lucky I have such glubbed-up friends… If I had suspected an ambush you’d both be dead as zose useless fuckin’ lowbloods decoratin’ the hallvay.”

Dave’s stony facade threatens to crack upon hearing the fishtroll’s eastern-European accent. “Dude, you sound like fucking Dracula.”

“Vhatever, Englishman. I assume your organization sent you to kill me and I’m sure you feel very cool. You’re not special, I’ve already killed like tventy hitmans.”

“Hitmen.”

“Excuse me?”

“Hitmen. Twenty Hitmen.” Dave fixes his shades, not that they needed fixing.

“Vhat ze fuck ever!” Before either agent can stop him, Ampora withdraws a stick from his vest. It’s about a foot long, maybe ivory or some pale wood, seems like designs are carved in it. It’s-- it’s a fucking magic wand.

Jade immediately loses it and starts cracking up. “Ha ha ha ha! Is that a magic wand? Dave, get a load of that shit! Avada Kedavra! Ha ha ha ha!” Even Dave has to crack a smile, if only because the troll is getting so visibly pissed.

“Seriously, dude, if we interrupted your LARP night, we’re really sorry. We can come back later, after you’ve slain the dragon and recovered the holy chalice. In fact, can I play? I’m not bad with a sword.”

Ampora grits his pointy teeth, all three rows of them, and points the thin stick at the busted door. Splinters of wood and metal cast off from the scorched, twisted hole begin to vibrate and one by one fly up to it and fit themselves into the cavity. The metal shifts organically, washing over itself like ripples in a pond before smoothing out completely. As an afterthought, it spits out a lump of lead at the same velocity it went in. It blasts a hole in the door opposite. Jade twitches at the sound but Dave only gazes on.

“Dude. Does that thing--”

“Yes, it is fuckin’ magic. Science, actually, like you fuckvits vould understand. Do you feel now you have made a misconclusion in choosing to fuck vis me?”

“No, I was just wondering if it does blowjobs,” replies Dave, cool facade starting to slip. Jade grins, also trying to stifle her cackles but not doing as good a job.

“Vhat did you say.” Eridan is practically steaming out of his webby ears now.

“Magic--” Dave snorts, trying so hard not to laugh he’s actually crying a little, “--Magic blowjobs.” And then he loses it for real. 

Standing between the two laughing agents Eridan’s gray hands go white clutching his wand and the mask of rage that is his face seems poised to explode. “You first.” He turns to Dave, lifts his wand, and starts to walk forward. 

“Hey, I was chatting with your mate Feferi earlier. At the risk of a verbal gag, you could call her quite a catch.” Dave’s trigger finger slides innocuously past the trigger guard, finding the familiar curve of the trigger and staying the fuck put.

“How dare you glubbin’ speak her name.” Eridan’s shitty wand starts crackling with luminescent energy.

“I don’t know how you netted a babe like her!” called Jade. Now it’s on. 

“Yeah, someone bass-ackwards like you.” Dave replies… to Jade, practically ignoring Eridan at this point.

“Aww, I think he’s a-dory-ble!”

“Please. His expression is making me eel.”

“Vould you two unbeciles please shut ze fuck up!?”

“Fine. This is going to go down one of two ways, Fins. Either you come with us willingly and unharmed, or I fail to keep my trigger-happy companion here docile long enough for that to be a possibility.”

“You sink sreatenin’ me vill cause me to simply give up? I’m ze most vanted troll in ze vorld, and I did not get zat vay by surrenderink to fucknuts like you!”

“Suit yourself.” Dave quips, leveling his PPK at the fishtroll’s knees and firing twice. Energy tears through the wand in Ampora’s hand and he whips it downwards. The bullets are deflected mid-route and fly off in different directions, ripping holes in the walls to his left and right. 

His maneuver gives Strider enough time to break into a run. Closing the gap between them, he begins to uncaptchalouge his trusty saber. Before it can appear, though, with a strange popping sound it simply fades out.

“I don’t sink so,” utters the aquatic troll, wand now violently shaking. “It seems my science is simply better zen yours.”

“I don’t need science to hand you your ass,” replies Dave, holstering his gun and crouching in a Krav Maga stance.

Jade, from beyond his foe, calls out. “Oh please, let me do it!” And without waiting for an answer she leaps at the troll in what can an only be called an acrobatic fucking maneuver.

Dave has a bit of trouble following what happens next. Jade’s on the troll in an instant, fists flying at lightning speed. Ampora slashes wildly with his wand, leaving glowing rents in the air which the female agent can’t seem to penetrate. She’s everywhere, sweeping low kicks following high strikes in a blurringly quick chain, but she just can’t land a blow-- every strike she attempts is thwarted by the flowing white energy. 

With a roar, Eridan draws his wand back and whips it at her. Although nothing physically makes contact with her, Jade flies back like a piece of paper caught in an updraft and slams against the wall, toppling and landing in a heap twenty feet down the hallway. There’s a steaming scorch on her chest, angry red against her pale skin.

“Jade!” Calls Strider, accidentally allowing concern to taint the perfectly calm affect of his voice. He can’t get to her without passing the troll, now turned to face him. Evenly, slowly, he slides the shades off his face, folds the temples, and puts them in his pocket. “Okay, Ampora, you did it. You pissed me off a little bit.” 

His red eyes burn.

“You look like a glubbin’ freak. I get zat you’re supposed to be super cool secret agent fella but like I said before, you’re not special! You’re not even zat good lookin’.”

From the corner of his crimson eye, Dave sees Jade rising to her feet behind Eridan. He’s tempted to rejoin the comment, but Dave knows when it’s time to speak and when it’s time to let your actions speak for you. Without another word, the agent throws himself at the troll, loosing a flurry of strikes. Before he can even make contact, though, Ampora flicks his wand again and Dave’s fists find only air-- there’s an impenetrable resistance that’s keeping him from getting too close, a sort of shield he can’t pass through. With another flick of the pale stick he sends Dave flying backwards, sprawling in midair and bouncing once on the ground before coming to a stop some thirty feet away. He’s up in a flash, but before he can close the gap and attack again, Eridan fires jagged bolts of pure white energy at him from the tip of his wand.

“That’s uncomfortably phallic, bro,” yells Dave, nimbly dodging the blasts, before drawing his PPK and firing a couple shots of his own. Predictably they hit nothing but ricochet off the troll’s shield. The action produces the desired effect, though; Jade’s silently poised to strike behind Ampora, and when he draws the wand down in a slashing motion she springs at him from behind, disarming him of the wand and simultaneously bringing a quick elbow to the back of his neck. Unprepared for the assault, he reels forward, and finding the wand suddenly missing, he balls his hands into fists.

“Motherfuckers!” he yells, spinning to face Jade. He assumes a boxer’s stance, cracks his neck, and brings up his guard. Upon recognizing his technique, Jade’s stance loosens slightly and she draws one arm back slowly, base much wider than before. Dave’s seen this before, it must be the wushu she referred to earlier-- clearly not a brag. Eridan opens with a speedy lunge and a left jab for the face, which Jade easily avoids, flowing like water around his arm and striking his face with a lightning-fast palm. He shrugs it off and sends his right fist hurtling towards her, but she’s much too fast even for him to catch. She easily dodges or blocks every one of his punches, following up with quick strikes that leave him off-balance and disoriented. When he guards his head she attacks his torso, when he drops his guard she batters his face relentlessly. Before long, her whirling strikes and whip-quick attacks meet no resistance-- the troll’s got no strength left to fight back.

“It’s over, motherfucker!” cries Jade, and with a crushing blow to his nose knocks him clean off his feet. He lands face-down, between her and Dave. The girl’s pale fists are lightly stained with splatters of purple blood, her breathing still heavy from exertion. After a brief victorious moment, she reaches down to zip-tie his hands like she’d been planning earlier.

Before Dave can even process his movement, the troll is on his feet, one arm around Harley’s neck, the other holding a small gold blade to her pale throat. “Zought you’d finished me off zat qvickly? Ha!” He wiggles the knife slightly at her throat and a droplet of scarlet blood wells from her pale skin onto the blade’s surface. She doesn’t make a sound, her beautiful face betraying surprise, shock maybe, but not fear.

Dave’s got his PPK trained at the base of Ampora’s zigzag horn, ready at a millisecond's notice to divide his head into fractions. But he’s unable to make the shot-- hurting Jade would be unthinkable and the seizing wrench of his enemy’s death could result in her dying too. “Strider! Ergh-- Shoot him!” yells the girl. “I’ll be fine!”

The scenario plays out a hundred times in the agent’s head. He shoots the troll, the girl lives. He shoots the troll, the girl dies immediately. He shoots the troll, troll cuts her bad, he gets her to the hospital as fast as he can and she makes it. She smiles weakly at him, green eyes a bit dull but still open, still curious and thirsty for life. Or she doesn’t, and he clutches her smooth hand as her life seeps away. He shoots at the troll and misses, he slices her neck, blood and she can’t scream, God no, it’s too painful--

He gives up. This troll, just like Serket, has too much pride-- too much to just kill her after Dave’s dropped his gun. Above all, she’s the one who must survive the night. In this mission she’s the star. It’s her.

Strider lifts his hands and twirls the PPK to dangle by its trigger guard from his trigger finger. “Ok, Ampora. Let the girl go and I’ll do what you say.” 

“Zat’s more like it. Now, keep your glubbin’ fronds in ze air,” he’s loosened his grip on the girl,  lowering a hand to dig into his waistband for a gold revolver. “like zat, and turn around. Toss avay your gun.” 

Dave complies. 

He’s mixing a cocktail of time and probability equations, instinct, gut feeling. A little math, a little luck-- actually quite a bit of luck-- will yield the perfect result. The only acceptable result. He’s Senior Agent Dave Strider, and his performance is impeccable. Same every time, like a scratched record.

“Walk.” Eridan Ampora commands, the W slightly wavering. He raises the gun, draws back the hammer. He loosens the girl just that little bit more. Dave’s PPK lies on the ground. One of the light fixtures on the wall is flickering, electronics probably damaged by Eridan’s sciency magic beams. In perfect rhythm it flashes slightly brighter in the hallway. Giving Dave a beat to follow was a mistake. Five. Six. Five six seven eight.

One. Jade yells “Now!” and ducks out of Ampora’s grasp, rolls to the side, springs up to her feet.

Two. Dave whips around, dives for his PPK and snatches it in a perfect roll.

Three. Eridan grits his rows of jagged shark teeth and with a resounding Crack fires his revolver at Dave. A plume of flame precedes the slug out of the barrel, and it spins towards him many times faster than he can even think. It slams into the ground an inch to his left. 

Four. He stops in a crouched firing stance, aims, fires. three shots. Three hits, shoulder bicep hip.

Five. Jade dashes behind him, sparkling dress flowing behind her movements like a living shadow. She begins to uncaptchalouge a military issue M9.

Six. Shock rips through the Troll as rich purple blood sprays from his wounds. He drops his revolver and slumps forward, landing on his knees. Dave’s got his gun trained right on the trolls thinkpan. With a groan, he holds his wounded right arm with his left hand. Jade’s holding her M9 to his temple.

Seven. “...Fuck you,” he mumbles, just before Jade brings the butt of her handgun down on the crown of his head. He falls forward, unconscious.

Eight. Dave withdraws his shades from his pocket, flicks the temples open, and slides them on.

 

Clouds draw across the night sky, hazily reflecting the glowing city lights below. The moon is bright and crescent-shaped, and a light breeze rustles the agents’ hair as they stand on the roof, watching a USAF helicopter carrying the unconscious troll away, arms around waists. Jade’s head is resting on Dave’s shoulder, but suddenly she raises it and faces him.

The two agents look at each other for a moment. Jade begins. “You saved--”

“Don’t mention it. If anything, we’re even,” Replies Dave.

She gingerly reaches up and takes his sunglasses off. “Your eyes are beautiful. I’ve never seen--”

Dave cuts her off. “Jade. Do you get any leave time after missions?” Without even knowing why, he’s trying once more to be nonchalant. It doesn’t take. He’s simply overflowing with affection for this girl, this amazing woman who’s as sharp and deadly as she is beautiful.

“I can take leave, if that’s what you mean,” She replies, a half-smile drawing across her freckled face.

“Then take some motherfucking leave.” He draws her close, breathing in her gunpowder scent.

“Roger that, commander. Now then, do you know any good bars around here? I believe you owe me a drink.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! To be continued in the next BONDSTUCK adventure!


End file.
